In Their Cups
by Saribelle
Summary: After agreeing to Morrigan's deal, Vani Surana finds comfort in an unexpected friend.


The door had barely closed behind her when the tears began to flow. Peering through a hazy film of tears, she found the smallest corner of the study, a dimly-lit niche between towering book shelves. Old books and expensive ink filled the cool air with their sharp, dry smells, and it was as comforting to her as a mother's perfumed embrace. She pressed herself into the niche with her back to the cold stone wall. Safe in her hiding place, the tears came freely.

Interesting. Vani had not cried when she left behind the Alienage for a life of training and servitude in the Tower. She had shed no tears when she betrayed Jowan to the Circle. She had not even managed to weep at Duncan's passing. These things were never truly hers.

To lose those things was disappointing and disconcerting, to be sure. The drying tears Alistair hastily swept away those first few days after Ostagar made sense to her, though she did not share them. But for her, the losses were simply to be expected. You could not lose what was not yours. She was elven-born, and had no claim to the things of this world.

Until now.

Until a fool of a templar had taken her by surprise, answering her simple question with a kiss that answered another question altogether. That first fumbling kiss had bound the two of them together, giving her something to hold onto for the first time in her life. Suddenly, everything seemed brighter and sharper around the edges, more real somehow. Her duty as a Grey Warden took on new meaning, for there were things in this world that were worth saving, were worth holding onto at whatever cost. It was no longer about dying for the cause; there were things worth _living_ for.

Fool of a templar…fool of a mage, more like. Fool of an elf to think to claim this precious thing for her very own. Had she not learned by now that you could not hold onto anything in this world?

A slender shadow crossed the wall and jolted her from her daze. Before three heartbeats passed, a spell exploded from her outstretched palm. A shimmering bluish haze encircled the intruder, binding him in place. The elf inside pantomimed knocking on the edge of the barrier. It took her a moment to recognize the assassin with his hair unbound, but she released the field to allow Zevran to pass through.

"I count myself lucky you are not as enamored of fire as some mages I have met, else I might be a disgusting pile of ashes, and Arl Eamon's lovely rug would be ruined," he said, raising his eyebrows in the way that punctuated his affectionate teasing and invited a witty retort.

"Zevran, please go away," she said, using her Circle-honed discipline to keep her voice even. She was their leader by strange twists of fate, and she would not have him see her undone like this.

"But then who will watch your back, what with your dog entertaining himself in the larder and the other Warden otherwise occupied?" he asked, walking down the short aisle between shelves to kneel in front of her. The oblique mention of Alistair sent a twisting dagger into her heart as she met Zevran's light eyes. His face was a mask of blithe innocence, but his eyes gave the lie to his apparent ignorance.

"What do you know, Zevran?" she asked cautiously, feeling a spark of anger blossoming like an ember within her.

"I know _many_ things, Warden. Where to begin? I know that you should never follow Antivan rum with Orlesian wine, unless you particularly like the thought of losing several days of your life. I know that sisters of the Chantry are like tigers in-"

"Zevran, be serious," she interrupted. "I have no qualms about using another spell to put you to sleep for the next eight hours."

"And I know that you have reached a difficult decision this night and should not be alone. I know about your deal with the witch," he finished. He gave her a cocky grin as her mouth dropped open in surprise. "Come now, Warden, I am an assassin," he explained. "Lurking about in shadows and putting my nose where it does not belong is my life's work. Besides, you know that secrets will never last long amongst a group such as this one."

"I suppose not," she admitted.

"May I?" he asked, tipping his head toward the slightly too-small space beside her. She hesitated before giving him a tentative nod. He moved toward her, loose shirt shifting slightly to expose the hard lines of his body beneath. This was the essence of Zevran – something hard and dangerous not quite concealed beneath the light-hearted exterior. Moving with his usual grace, he settled into the space beside her, their legs touching ever so slightly.

"Do you wish to speak of it?" he asked after a long, uncomfortable stretch of silence.

"Yes…no," she said. "I wish I could just forget."

"Dear Maker, I had hoped you would say that," he said with boyish excitement, shifting his weight to draw a small leather-wrapped flask from the pocket of his pants. "Normally I would offer to take you to my bed in a heroic gesture, but-" something flashed in his eyes as he stumbled over his words, a rare occurrence – "considering the circumstances, I imagine this is a more favorable choice, yes? Antivan rum is most excellent for forgetting."

She took the proffered flask and removed the cork, releasing a sweet, heavy smell. After taking a small draught, she handed it back to Zevran. The liquor was sweet and mellow as it slid down her throat, warming her body as it went down. He took a long drink, then corked the bottle before resting it on his thigh.

"Do you think I was wrong, Zevran?" she asked, not sure how she wanted him to answer.

"It does not matter what I think. Do you think you were wrong?" he replied evenly.

"I don't know," she said, knowing he would catch her in the lie even as it passed her lips.

"You know this is not true, do you not?" he asked, shifting to meet her eyes. He gave her a piercing gaze that stripped away her pretenses, found the chink in her armor. "What does your heart say?"

Vani did not know what her heart said; she had only just learned to listen to it. It had only just learned that it could want, and better yet, that it could _have_. She had always been one who listened to her mind, the cold, calculating logic that made her a skilled mage. Her mind told her that this was minor in the grand scheme of things, and that it was a necessary evil. But her heart was weeping, protesting the unfairness of it all.

"It was the right thing. I will not lose him if I can help it," she said finally.

"I agree," he said. "The price is unfortunate, but you must admit there are worse ways to save the world than a night with Morrigan. Not many," he added with an exaggerated shudder, "but they do exist." He took another drink from the bottle before offering it to her once more.

She took another long drink and stared intently at the bottle as tears pricked at her eyes. There it was, right in the open. She knew Morrigan did not do this out of malice, or some ill-intentioned attempt to steal Alistair away. The very thought would make her laugh under other circumstances. But it did not quell her imagination, did not drive out the thoughts of someone else touching the only thing she had ever felt was unequivocally _hers_. It was the clash between mind and heart again, one knowing what was needed and one wanting the impossible. Maker, how did people live like this, enslaved to the foolishness of the heart?

"What do you think of my fine liquor?" Zevran asked, breaking her train of thought. "I find it delightful, although I am of course biased."

"It's good," she admitted, somewhat thankful for his interruption. "A bit stronger than I am accustomed to."

"Mmm, yes," Zevran said thoughtfully. "Many find Antivan liquor to be overpowering. It knocks you off your feet and makes you its fool. I have made a great many memories – and forgotten just as many, I am sure – while under its sweet influence. On the other hand, I sampled several fine ales in Orzammar at Oghren's recommendation. I found them rather pleasing, although somewhat bland for my tastes," he continued. "Then you have the sweet delicacy of Orlesian wine, and the heaviness of Tevinter brandy."

"I must admit that I am not following you. Are you drunk already?" Vani asked, starting to feel the effects of the rum quite strongly herself.

"Not even close," he said, the mischievous smile returning to his face. "You see, I am a man of many pleasures. I enjoy every spirit that crosses my tongue. Even the worst and cheapest of them will get me drunk, after all. After enough pints, it's all the same. And the taste of one does not diminish another; it in fact increases my appreciation of each successive wine or ale. While I have my preferences, there are a great many spirits that will satisfy my thirst."

"Alistair, on the other hand…well, the boy can scarcely drink a pint of ale without giggling like a barmaid," Zevran continued, wrinkling his nose and looking put-upon. She felt tension twisting between her shoulderblades at the mention of his name. "I've no doubt Oghren told you of our little contest at the Pearl. Wynne gave us a very stern talking-to the next day. Apparently she feels her magic is for a higher calling than curing hangovers." He shook his head, and the image of the stern older woman scolding the three men was almost enough to make her laugh.

"In any case, Alistair…he has a preferred wine." The mention of his name again killed the laughter on her tongue. "A very fine, full-bodied, somewhat rare wine," he said, cocking his head and appraising her with his eyes. "He waited a very long time to find the wine that was just right for him, and when he found it, he drank deep." Understanding finally reached her slightly foggy brain as his eyes drifted back up her body. "I dare say he is intoxicated on this wine most of the time, and when he is not, he craves it like a drunkard."

"Well…what if he only likes this wine because it's the only one he's ever had? A new one might make the other seem bland and tasteless by comparison," she trailed off, not quite meeting Zevran's intense gaze. "He might keep wanting it even after it was gone."

"No," Zevran replied without hesitation. "This wine is everything Alistair would wish for in a wine. If for some reason he was not able to drink his wine, he would no doubt abstain. You understand this, no doubt?"

"I think I do," Vani said slowly.

"But imagine that someone – oh say, a witch – came along and told him that if he would sacrifice but one night and drink of another wine, then for the rest of his life, he could drink the wine of his choosing. He could do it, especially if it meant the preservation of the one he loved – er, the wine he preferred. This wine might even be pleasing to his tongue, though this would not betray his heart. But it would only remind him of the glorious wine he was missing, and would make him appreciate his fine wine even more. It would be an act of love, not betrayal."

"So…you don't think he'll prefer her company to mine?" she asked, finally asking the stupid little thing that her heart would not let die. She could tolerate any pain of the body, but her heart was laid bare when it came to Alistair.

"What? I am talking about wine, my dear Warden," Zevran said, snorting in amusement. "What are you talking about?"

"Come on," she pressed, feeling a flare of irritation with him. But Zevran would say no more on the subject, and strangely she found it comforting. He had said what needed to be said, hadn't he?

Instead he started telling her tales of Antiva, his favorite topic. By the time they finished the flask of rum, she felt as if she had walked the crowded streets, smelled the acrid stench of tanning leather and danced into the night at the spring festivals. It would be a lie to say that she forgot about Alistair, but she forgot her despair long enough to get through the night.

When the knock finally came at the door, she shook herself from a light doze, head resting on Zevran's shoulder. One lean arm was draped around her shoulders, hugging her very slightly. The assassin himself was asleep, head resting against hers.

A voice came that cut through her like the sharpest blade. "Vani? Are you in here?" His voice was tired and forlorn. The two elves shook themselves awake, then met each other's eyes with shy smiles. For a split second, Vani wondered how things might have been different, had they met sooner in her journey. Then the thought was gone, and he gave her a genuine smile.

"Go to him," Zevran said, nodding his head. "I think I will stay a moment."

"Thank you," she said, not quite knowing what else to say. As she started to stand, he grasped her wrist, guiding her gently towards him. Almost chaste, he placed a feather-light kiss on her cheek, then lingered with his lips at her forehead.

"Vani?" he said as she stood to go to the waiting templar.

"Yes?"

"Drink long, and drink well."


End file.
